


Hope, not despair

by ovely



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: #jezwedid, M/M, Reality, age gap, jezwen, labour leadership election 2015, owen jones has attention span issues and an impatient internal monologue, we'll keep the red flag flying here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:12:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4792184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ovely/pseuds/ovely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's one of those days when interviewing somebody changes them from an old friend and ally to a massive inappropriate crush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope, not despair

**Author's Note:**

> I love Jeremy Corbyn, I also love Owen Jones, what better way to celebrate the triumph of grassroots activism and direct democracy than to cut out the middleman and let them love each other.
> 
> The first section of this is based on [this video](http://nullrefer.com/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=atxfqG68pd8), the second on [this one](http://nullrefer.com/?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qBbsU9VkRvQ), so a lot of the dialogue comes from the two videos. You can play along if you like. I removed one of the cameramen from the Corbyn interview (sorry Tom) but other than that it ought to match up.
> 
> [Please read the mathematical disclaimer if you're into that.](http://licornoz.livejournal.com/758.html)

Searching for a convenient excuse, Owen finally found his eyes alighting on the cameraman in front of him. “Adam,” he said, “who’s standing there being all professional, he’s got quite a lot to do in his life which is beyond filming my semi-coherent ramblings and that would mean a lot of extra work for him.”

Adam frowned and lowered his left hand from the camera, peering at Owen from over the top of the screen. “Well, if it’s the unedited version they want, I just stick the whole thing in, it’s nothing extra for me—”

“Nah, you don’t want to do that,” said Owen quickly. He directed himself towards the camera again. “I’m up for posting full versions, it’s just then if I do this now then everyone’s going to keep expecting me to do that, er, with everything we ever do, and that, that could end up being, er, a bit chaotic. So I’m open-minded and, you know, we’ll just keep an eye on that one and see what people think.”

That certainly sounded a little woolly to Adam. “What’s wrong with posting the Hitchens interview?” he queried. “It’s fine, isn’t it? You agreed on some stuff, had a bit of a laugh, but it’s not like you came out as a secret right-winger. If that’s what they want to see …”

“No, Hitchens was fine,” Owen replied, “I just don’t want to get into the habit for all of them, you know.” He shrugged evasively.

“Which?” said Adam, his eyes narrowed. “Corb—”

Owen coughed loudly.

Adam sighed and pressed a few buttons on the camera. “Camera’s off,” he said, after a moment. “Corbyn?”

“Did you get rid of the footage, like I asked?”

“Yes,” said Adam, “so even if you release all the others, you wouldn’t be able to do that one, it would be impossible.”

“They’ll still ask about it, though,” said Owen. “Or they’ll ask him, and he’s—well, he’s going to have bigger things to worry about. Or they’ll ask you.” He gave Adam what he hoped was a threatening glare.

“I wasn’t there,” said Adam, “the camera wasn’t there after you shooed me away, there’s nothing scandalous on film.”

“Nothing ‘scandalous’ happened,” said Owen firmly. “But still, the full footage from before you left, it’s still a bit … well.” He shifted in his seat slightly. “OK, move on, next question?” he asked hurriedly.

In a few moments the camera was back on and Owen was responding to a viewer called Fraser McClennan about his refusal to iron shirts.

**(about a month earlier)**

Owen had known Jeremy a decade, but he hadn’t seen him fresh from his morning run before, a little red-faced and in a nice pair of shorts revealing his legs, which were admirably lean for someone in his mid-sixties.

 _Not the point_ , Owen thought to himself. _Come on, Owen._

He’d known him a decade, but mostly as a maverick back-bencher, not as the possible future leader of the Labour party. That was it, the right way to be thinking about this. None of that leg nonsense. Where had that come from?

After they had said hello, and Owen had asked Jeremy about his run—realising as he did so that he was disappointed not to have caught a glimpse—Adam returned with some more drinks, and Owen made a start on the interview questions. “Your critics on the right of the party, they say you’re unelectable, you’re a throwback, you’re a dinosaur: how would you respond to them?”

Jeremy began his answer immediately. “Keep off the personal and keep it political, erm, I think the public as a whole are utterly fed up with, erm, personality politics, with, er, the idea that everything is about celebrity and nothing is about substance.”

Owen rubbed his hands together gently as Jeremy continued: “it’s not about an individual, it’s absolutely not about an individual.”

_It’s about you, though, isn’t it, Jeremy? People are drawn to you. You must know it’s about you._

Owen pressed his hands harder together to force himself out of his reverie as Jeremy said something about environmental policies. Adam shifted in his seat a little.

 _Next question, Owen._ He hesitated briefly before continuing. “You’ve already had various attacks in the Daily Mail, the Telegraph, a lot of the right-wing press … and what they’re going to do is they’re going to go through your life, the life of people close to you, they’re going to distort and smear you as best they can: are you prepared for that?”

Jeremy had been staring intensely into his eyes as he asked the question. “I’ve had it before, erm—”

“But nowhere near this scale,” Owen interrupted. “Not even close.” They would slaughter him.

“No, no, indeed,” Jeremy concurred. “Nowhere near this level, but I have had it before, over my, erm, meetings with Sinn Fein during the 1980s—”

_1980s. God, he is old. I was a little kid back then, and now I’m sitting here looking at him like this. Christ._

“—erm, my involvement with the peace process in the Middle East, I’ve had an awful lot of abuse—”

“But—you’re fine, right?” Owen interrupted.

“I deal with it like this,” Jeremy replied. “It hurts—when it hurts my friends, my family, my loved ones. I don’t care what they say about me, I’m not interested, I’m not bothered.”

Owen nodded along disingenuously. _I’m bothered._

“As far as I’m concerned,” Jeremy went on, “there’s a lot of people out there who are leading a very tough life, children growing up in grossly overcrowded homes where they can’t meet their potential …”

As Jeremy continued, Owen came to the startling conclusion that, just at this moment, this wasn’t what he cared about. Yes, it was unjust and it was wrong and it was Tory, but he’d asked Jeremy about how _he’d_ been treated during this campaign, and he was a person too, he could have his feelings hurt as much as anybody. And now might not be the right time, but that was what Owen—who was also, he reminded himself, a living person with feelings and emotions—was concerned with.

 _Come on, Owen_ , he told himself, _be professional, Labour party, socialism_ , but unconvincingly. “But on a personal level,” he continued, waving a hand dismissively at the camera, “are you OK? I mean, it must have been a shock for you, really. I work in media, I know how cruel we can be.”

Jeremy glanced quickly at Adam before replying. “Thanks for your concern, Owen,” he said quietly, and smiled.

Owen hastily looked down at his notes to avoid prolonged eye contact, launching over-animatedly into the next question. “A critique, sometimes, of the left, er, of people like ourselves, is we focus on people—just the bottom of society. So what are the sorts of policies that wouldn’t just be good for people at the very bottom of society, people most—you know, people who are homeless, people who have very low-paid work”— _stop looking into his eyes and speak English_ —“what of your policies do you think would appeal to working people who are slap-bang in the middle?”

Jeremy grew more animated as he talked. “I think it’s morally reprehensible that we have people on the streets. I think it’s morally reprehensible that people are forced to beg, I think it’s morally reprehensible that we are a nation of food banks. There are a lot of people, who are not poor, who also feel that moral revulsion. Secondly, there’s the practical side of it. If we, erm, get old, as you and I will one day, in a very long time in your case, of course—”

“Well, you’re doing pretty well yourself,” Owen replied, allowing himself another quick glance at Jeremy’s legs. _Owen, stop, he’s in his sixties, for Christ’s sake._

“You’re too kind,” replied Jeremy, grinning and shaking his head a little. “But when we do get there, we’re all going to get ill. We’re all going to need a health service. We’re all going to need relatives who—ah—”

Owen watched Jeremy raptly as Jeremy stumbled over his words, perhaps disarmed by the unusual fixity of Owen’s stare. As he regathered the flow of his speech and continued, Adam raised his eyebrows and adjusted the camera meaningfully. Owen shot him a brief look: _don’t interfere with this. We’ll get the interview done. I’m just taking this—wherever it’s going._ He saw a flick of Jeremy’s eyes mirror his own.

God, he was so compelling. Owen wasn’t even listening to what he said now, just to the tone of his voice as it gently rolled from one social injustice to the next, glancing occasionally at his fingers as they stroked the underside of the table.

“That would be enough to pay student fees for everybody,” Jeremy concluded. “That’s real security, for everybody in society. Sorry, is there a problem?” The question was directed towards Adam, who had stopped crouching behind the camera and was glaring in Owen’s direction.

“Not at all,” said Adam placidly, returning his attention to the camera screen.

Owen frowned. “Did you want to do a bit of that again? If you had to stop, there—”

“No, let’s do the next question,” said Jeremy. “I’ve gone on about that enough, let’s get this done before you get fed up with hearing my voice.”

“I’d never get fed up of your voice, Jeremy,” said Owen.

Jeremy smiled modestly and fidgeted in his chair. Their feet touched briefly. Owen swung his right leg back out of the way automatically, then regretted it, then regretted regretting it. _Christ’s sake, Owen._ Jeremy was a friend. A friend who had nice legs and a nice face and was old enough to be his father.

They met each others’ eyes again and neither said anything for a moment.

Owen pulled himself together and forced himself to confront the camera again. “To people watching,”—he saw Jeremy blink and nod as if he, too, had forgotten such people existed—“maybe, who, at the moment, maybe they’re worried about the future, they have fears, but they feel totally disillusioned by politics. It’s just not relevant to their lives. What message of hope would you give them?”

“Politics,” said Jeremy spiritedly, “gave us the v—the vote.” _God, he’s stumbling on the intensity of our connection._  It was an absurd thought, but Owen no longer punished himself for thinking it. He sat there, staring into Jeremy’s eyes, running his hands over each other, nodding, absorbed in the glorious sound of Jeremy’s rhetoric, almost smiling before realising he ought to be reacting sombrely to the serious subject matter.

“Hold on,” said Adam, “can we wait till this dog stops barking to do the next bit?”

Owen hadn’t noticed there was a dog barking. Nor did he particularly notice himself asking the next question once the interview had resumed. Once Jeremy’s response finished, he took a moment’s pause. _Get on with it, Owen._

“If you win,” he asked, “and there’s a good chance you’ll win, as things stand, the Parliamentary Labour Party, there’s a big number of people, of MPs there, who are desperate for you not to win.”

“Really?” asked Jeremy in mock surprise.

“Apparently so,” said Owen, grinning briefly.

“Where have you heard that?”

“Oh, just a rumour. A rumour mill,” Owen replied, now feigning interest in an imaginary speck on the table so as to put off the longing that meeting Jeremy’s eyes had come to incite in him.

“Just a rumour—it must be just a rumour,” Jeremy concurred.

“Must be just a rumour,” Owen repeated. “A few of them, like Chuka Umunna and others, they’ve said they wouldn’t serve in your shadow cabinet whatsoever: what’s your strategy going to be to bring—to keep that Parliamentary Labour Party together?”

“Charity to all and malice to none,” Jeremy replied.

_What a man he is. How kind, how refreshingly honest, how radiant in the north London sun …_

The interview continued, Owen occasionally drifting into reality to the extent that he was able to ask the questions he had prepared. Soon enough—too soon—his daydreams were interrupted by Adam.

“I think we’ve got enough,” he was saying, carefully shifting the camera to adjust the frame. “Jeremy, could you wrap it up for us?”

Owen usually ended these videos with a handshake and a polite thank you to whomever he was interviewing. This time Adam had clearly decided to change that approach; perhaps he had noticed the look in Owen’s eyes, the way he was focused so intently on Jeremy, the way he was running his hands over and over each other, keeping them distracted so he wouldn’t just reach across the table …

“Sure, of course,” said Jeremy. “I think we can mobilise people: it’s going to be exciting, it’s not going to be simple or going to be easy. Surely, let’s do hope, not despair.”

There was a moment of silence. Jeremy averted his eyes from Owen’s gaze.

“Great, thanks,” said Adam. “You two keep talking, I’ll just go round and get some distance shots then.” “Yeah,” said Owen, still not looking away from Jeremy. “You know what, Adam, that’ll be fine, after that—you don’t have to come back or anything, I’ll do the outro myself. Don’t want to keep you waiting.”

Adam looked briefly as if he was about to argue—he certainly looked suspicious, at any rate—but lifted the camera from its position and stood up from his chair. “OK, right. See you later then. Thanks, Jeremy.”

“Pleasure,” Jeremy replied. “Not much of a debate,” he remarked, once Adam was out of earshot.

“Hmm, yeah. Well, there’s not a lot we disagree on, really.” _And I was a bit distracted for most of it._ “Should have seen when I did Douglas Carswell, that was something different.”

Jeremy chuckled. “Douglas Carswell? God.”

“Yeah.” Owen smiled briefly. “It is—it is going OK though, is it? The campaign?”

“It’s going incredibly well,” said Jeremy earnestly. “Amazingly well, people are really listening to our ideas, they really want to get behind our policies.”

“They’re really taking notice of you,” Owen agreed.

“Well, it’s not just me, it’s the whole campaign, it’s all the supporters,”—he grinned and gestured at Owen—“our, erm, rare supporters in the media.”

Owen inclined his head modestly. “It is you, though, Jeremy, it really is. You’ve got—a sort of spark—I don’t know—something _electric_ about you—I—”

Jeremy was once again staring into his eyes with remarkable intensity. “Owen—”

Their feet were touching again.

Owen reached over the table and took Jeremy’s hand. Jeremy’s thumb stroked his palm, and they sat together, silently, in the Finsbury Park sunshine.

**Author's Note:**

> I was considering a sex scene. Maybe next time? (Maybe never.)
> 
> Also: look at [the first comment here and Owen's response](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wrwuk6NoMv8&lc=z13esjihipfwf5opt04cfhtrhpu0tnaab3w)! Yeah, that's your excuse …


End file.
